GTA: Whiteboy
by A1G1P2
Summary: A pugnacious attorney moves into a house on Grove Street, only to become immersed almost instantly into the gangster life of his new friends and neighbors. What will happen to the Oxford graduate in this new niche?
1. Prologue

If you honestly believe I'm just going to open up to you, you're sorely mistaken. A person in my position does not merely open up to the world. I must be trained to do so. Trained by those whom I trust - a privilege that is not easily earned. And if you care enough to train me to divulge the deepest of my thoughts with ebullience, then I'll be sure I can trust you, for the task is far more daunting than it may appear. I've lived sans family for a very long time, and with a terrifying childhood, I refuse to relive my past only to explain to others - people who I will never care to speak with after a while - my… condition - if you will.

That isn't to say that I do not wish to disclose my opinions and anecdotes to someone - anyone; on the contrary, I wish for nothing more. But with my… condition, I am simply uncomfortable speaking about topics that regard my life; past, present, or future. I will listen and respond enthusiastically to the issues you and others face, but I will rely on your selfishness to keep me from speaking. It's funny how that works, isn't it? Everybody is too caught up in their own lives that no one gives a flying fuck about how you were permanently scarred just the night before by someone who was supposedly your role model in life - not that anyone is aware of it. And that's no fault of theirs; it's human nature to be interested in oneself, and to show a genuine interest to one's surroundings is an admirable and rare trait. But we all strive for self-satisfaction and perpetual happiness. And that alone will make us neglect our duties as philanthropists. Take a common stereotype for example - lawyers. We are often believed to be concerned only with money and our well-being. Unfortunately, the statement has merit, for the most part, and the blanket hampers our potential to have a profound impact on the world.

But I digress; I'm not here to blither endlessly about my philosophical beliefs. I'm not here to denigrate mankind as a whole. I'm here writing because this is the only way I feel like I can express my emotions. I don't care if I have dedicated readers, as my being able to express my emotions to any anonymous Carl half-way across the world for even the briefest of moments in the subtlest of manners is much more satisfying to me than to keep all of my emotions and thoughts trapped within the walls of my mind for eternity. The bulwarks that restrain me from expressing earnest apprehensions need to be removed completely, and in time, they will be. But for now, I am content to chip away slowly at the seemingly impenetrable walls that disable me. Though I have yet to speak extensively on the events of my life, I feel as if these few paragraphs have illustrated [to those who pay strict attention to detail - like I said, I will be subtle in my approach] the most basic aspects, and some of the most complex aspects of who I am and who I perceive myself to be. This is a diary of sorts, and very accurately portrays the rest of my life as no one knows it.


	2. A Typical Saturday Night

Since leaving my previous place of residence halfway across the earth, I have traveled the world in search of the perfect place to settle. I was recently in the city of San Andreas, and happened upon a house in bustling Los Santos in a neighborhood called Ganton. Despite the warnings I had received about the area, I bought the property almost instantly, and moved in a number of days ago.

As I am still acquainting myself with the area and scouring the area for work, I have spent most of my time outside the home, so tonight I decided to order some food to go and eat in. As I rolled slowly into the cul-de-sac, I immediately turned right into my driveway. Fumbling with the keys, I made my way into my house, placing the food on the kitchen counter. I removed my jacket and coughed; the air was thick in the house and breathing was difficult.

As I sat down to eat I heard gunshots from outside. I moved slowly to my window and peered outside. I couldn't see anything, but I heard another shot from behind me. Glass shattered, and I turned quickly to see what had happened. The only thing I saw was a bottle hit the ground and burst into flames. I grabbed the knife I had been using for my dinner and headed out the front door.

Once outside, my first instinct was to run, but as I started, I heard the perpetrators coming closer to the front of the house, so I hid behind passenger seat door of my car instead. They soon stopped to throw another bottle into my house, and I peered over the hood of my car. It was getting dark so I could only just make out the men's figures. There were two of them dressed in plain clothes; they didn't even wear ski masks. I ducked lower and creeped towards the front tire. As one of the men stepped out in front of the vehicle, I grabbed him and spun him around, putting the knife to his neck. The other man pulled out a pistol and lifted it.

The man I had captured choked out the words "You ain't about to do SHIT" as I tightened my grip on him.

"Drop it," I said to the man standing not six feet away from me. "DROP IT YOU DEAF FUCKER" I shouted when he did not comply.

"Clyde cap this mu'fucka." I broke the skin with the blade, allowing a few drops of blood to leave the man's neck before I told Clyde to put his weapon down once again.

A door slammed shut from the house next door and Clyde placed his gun down, smirking. Another man walked onto my lawn, and, cocking his shotgun, he told me to drop the knife and back away.

"Or what," I said. "You're going to kill both of us?"

"Okay well how about we negotiate then," his calm response annoyed me. "I'll put my shotgun down if you let my brother go. And then we can discuss all this."

"And how do I know this crazy fucker here won't pick up the gun and kill me?" I quickly retorted.

"I know who you are," He put the shotgun down and began pacing about my driveway, "You just moved here. You don't have anything but this house and your life. My brother burned down your house, so now all you have is your life. How important is that now?"

"So what's stopping me from killing your brother then?"

"I'll help you. I'll give you money, food. I have resources. What do you want?"

I dropped the knife and fell to my knees. The man's brother walked over to his friends, brushing his shirt off and turning to face me. "I came to this country to help people. I want to bring justice and a moral code to this crime-infested town. I wanted to rid the place of fuckers like YOU" I pointed at the man I had just released as a tear escaped my eye.

"Carl just kill this fool. He's a fuckin' cop. He just wants to kill you and me and the rest of us." The ungrateful fuck just escaped death and he was ready to kill again. This is exactly the type of person I wanted locked up; taking innocent lives and living only to make money to spend on women, arms, and drugs. To repeat the same fucking process.

"Sweet go home. I'll talk to you later." Carl picked up his gun and opened the door of my car. "Get in; we're going for a ride." I had no choice but to acquiesce and get into the passenger side of the car.

Carl switched the radio on and drove, speaking over the incisive lyrics of Chuck D. "Believe it or not, I want the same thing you do. But you've got it backwards. The pigs is the problem, not us. The cops lock down deals and infect our people with the drugs. They use us to sell the drugs to each other-"

"Thereby dismantling gangs and making money at the same time," I cut him off.

"And they get high too. We're the ones fixing the situation, not them."

"And what happens when you reform the police department? You go back to killing each other and striking fear into the hearts of all the children in Los Santos?"

"_If_ we reform it."

"You're avoiding my question," I said coldly. I was right, but that didn't mean the cops were less of a problem than Carl made them out to be. I chose to ignore his elusion of my question and spoke again: "Where are we going?"

Carl responded by turning up the radio. I sighed deeply and turned my head towards the window, staring out at the desolate ghetto that we drove through. Houses with broken windows and families left destitute, all thanks to the gangs. Or the cops. Or whatever evil it was that consumed the city. I grew angry; initially because of the grim state of the city, but then at my own situation. At least these people had homes, even if they were in terrible condition.

At last we came upon a building in an unfamiliar part of the city. "Can you shoot?" Carl asked, unlocking the doors and exiting the vehicle.

"Sure," I hesitated. "Why?"

"It's easier if I don't have to protect your ass too," He chuckled as goose-bumps lined my arms. We stepped into the store and Carl called out to a man named Emmett.

A man stepped in from another room, with a grin on his face. "Carl how are you?"

"I'm doin' good I'm doin' good Emmett. I need some heat," Carl smiled back at Emmett, who pulled out two guns from underneath the counter. I recognized them to be M4s.

"Don't ask don't tell, right?" Emmett handed one to each of us before as Carl reached for his wallet. "Don't worry about money Carl. These are yours."

"Thanks Emmett," Carl called as we left and started driving again. In another five minutes, we were near the airport, at the ocean docks. We exited the car and Carl instructed me to look out to the water. I could vaguely make out a figure carrying a large box off a ship to another man, who was standing in front of a larger stack of boxes.

"You know what that is?" Carl looked at me. I nodded, but I still wasn't convinced of who the men were - they could be gang members. Hell, one of them could be Carl's brother. My thoughts were interrupted though by the cocking of a gun behind Carl.

"Well look who we have here." A voice whispered.

"What the fuck?" Carl put his gun on the ground and his hands on his head.

"I was so hurt when you didn't show up to my funeral Carl." The man said in a sarcastic tone. I turned and pointed my gun at him. "And who the fuck is this?" He looked at me with an annoyed look on his face.

"Drop it you fuck," I repeated for the twelfth time tonight.


End file.
